


Malignant Butterfly Infestations: A Case Study

by ketren



Series: Life Studies [1]
Category: Big Hero 6 (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Baymax is overprotective, Cass and Baymax are awesome, Cass's real name is Kasumi, Complete, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Post-Movie, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:06:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2733680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketren/pseuds/ketren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hamada family has a long history of genius, but it also has a history of self-sacrifice. Baymax intends to ensure that Hiro doesn’t follow the family tradition in that respect - even if Hiro appears to be fighting him the whole way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malignant Butterfly Infestations: A Case Study

Before Baymax can even speak, Hiro punches him in the elbow. Baymax stares bewilderedly at his own appendage. The action, the boy has assured him, is not meant with the same emotive intent as Baymax’s own karate kicks and punches, which are designed to subdue and protect; instead, it’s more of a friendly gesture. Not exactly an expression but something remarkably similar, a teasing and playful sort of act.

“Don’t say it, Baymax,” Hiro warns, drawing the robot’s attention away from the vinyl of his own elbow. “It’s no fun if you’re always telling me how dangerous everything is.”

“This ‘skitching’ is extremely dangerous,” Baymax says regardless, inflating himself to his full height and tilting his head, which he imagines imbues an almost petulant lilt to his statement. “As I have told you on several occasions. I am sure that you are aware of the possible dangers that arise when clinging to the back of a moving vehicle. It would be unwise of you to jeopardize your health for the momentary excitement of this activity.” Hiro rolls his eyes and digs through the cluttered comics and odd scraps of metal beneath his bed to pull out his rollerblades. If Baymax were capable of human emotions, he reasons that it would be easy to become annoyed with his charge. “Hiro, you do not appear to be listening.”

“I’m not,” Hiro replies cheerfully, though he does tug a helmet over his wild black hair, which lowers his risk of injury significantly, making Baymax’s warning sensors peter off. “If I listen to you, I’ll never get to class on time.”

“Might I state that you would have been capable of getting to class on time had you not been preoccupied with rewiring your jumpsuit to impress Gogo?”

“Shut up, Baymax,” Hiro groans, pulling his backpack over his shoulders and swiping the modified rollerblades from the floor. In an uncharacteristic burst of immaturity, he thumps down the stairs with more force than seems strictly necessary. Still, he goes slowly enough to allow Baymax time to wedge his way down the narrow stairwell. Hiro isn’t angry with him, then. Just chagrined.

“Might I also add that ‘skitching,’ as you have called it, has resulted in the deaths of three in fifty-two skating-related accidents in the past year, suggesting—”

“Are you still here?” Hiro’s aunt cries as he reaches the floor. She balances an empty tray across one shoulder, one hand on her hip. Behind her, the café is bursting with customers, some younger patrons even relegated to corners where they crouch and sip at their sugary beverages. The atypical influx may be a result of the weather: it’s morning, but the sky outside is gloomy grey, the winds sharp and biting. Customers huddle in clusters and shelter near the warm glow of the television, which feeds steady news of incoming storms as the kitchen supplies hot pastry after pastry. 

“I’d have left already, but…” Hiro trails off, and Baymax registers that he is uncomfortable, possibly because he cannot recall what he was doing. This does not happen often, but Hiro is particularly low on sleep, meaning that he has not given himself enough time to benefit from the memory-storing properties of rest.

Baymax turns to Aunt Cass helpfully. “Hiro was attempting to—”

“Finish his homework!” Hiro blurts, elbowing Baymax in the stomach with considerably more force. If this is a continuation of the ‘teasing’ from earlier, Baymax doesn’t understand the humor. Again, he stares curiously at his own white exterior. “Uh, my homework. I mean, I was just—running late now, Aunt Cass.” He offers a lopsided smile, starting for the door. “Talk later?”

“Ha-a-a-ang on,” his aunt growls in that peculiar way of hers, tugging him back by the hoodie with her free hand. 

“I’m late! What is it?”

She shrinks down a little, taking the tray with both hands to hold it in front of her like a shield. “We’re gonna need a generator.”

“A generator?” Hiro echoes, his face blank. “For what?”

“You really don’t pay attention to anything when you’re focused on a project, do you?” she asks, fondness creeping into her tone.

“That’s not true. I—”

“Hiro does not react to approximately forty percent of external stimuli when concentrating on a project,” Baymax supplies helpfully.

“Traitor,” Hiro hisses under his breath.

“Thanks, Baymax,” Aunt Cass says amusedly, patting his arm. “There’s a tropical storm on its way, Hiro. Coming through overnight, probably. We’ve got a decent stash of nonperishables, but that last generator kicked out back when—well, when you and Tadashi were doing that experiment to construct ‘efficient mechanical joints.’ Remember?”

Hiro’s eyes cloud over in the way they sometimes do when his brother’s name comes up in conversation. Baymax has helped his charge to regain some lost ground since the death of his brother, and Hiro has assured him that their actions have helped him reach a better emotional state, but this does not mean that no longer experiences extended periods of lowered serotonin levels. “Yeah, I remember,” he says finally, his expression distant. 

“Well, we need another one. Just in case. I’m gonna need you to pick one up before the stores close, okay? Use your credits, and—Baymax can carry it for you?” She looks to Baymax for confirmation. He nods.

“Better make it snappy,” calls a voice cheerfully. Mrs. Matsuda cradles her cup of tea at her customary seat at the window. A café regular of advanced years, her head of deep grey hair droops to her lower back, and the feather-covered green dress she wears is a slightly less alarming choice than her typical wardrobe of violently loud prints and colors. “Safeway’s a massacre at this time of day. I’d avoid that. ’Specially if you don’t wanna wheel to and from school like you’re on a jet ski out on the bay.” She jerks her chin at Hiro’s rollerblades, a wry glint in her eye.

Hiro grins back at her. Mrs. Matsuda is one of Hiro’s favorite patrons; Baymax has guessed this from the soft way he glances at her despite her strange garments. This may have something to do with her no-nonsense manner or her oddly rebellious nature. Hiro is convinced that she takes advantage of the café’s usual open windows to sneak cigarettes every now and then, but Cass and Hiro have never caught her in the act, even though the area around her always smells faintly of smoke. “What’d’you mean about the Safeway?” he asks.

“You’ll be fighting for your life if you go—even though I bet that’d just make it more fun for a boy like you. They’re running clean outta stuff left and right. Food flying off the blessed shelves! I barely made it outta there with a couple of cans of beans and water bottles and a flashlight. Good luck finding anything if you wait ‘till the evening. A generator? Hah!”

Pointedly, Cass raises an eyebrow in Hiro’s direction. “Great,” he mutters. “More work for me! Thanks a lot, Mrs. Matsuda.” The last part is said with what Baymax assumes is sarcasm, since he smiles as he makes for the door. The woman’s laughter follows them out.

When they reach the front entrance, Hiro pauses with his hand on the knob to turn back to his aunt; they stare at each other as though communicating in silence. Cass’s deep green eyes are apologetic, an effective stance that usually makes her the victor in these stand-offs.

And she is now. Hiro throws his head back in a groan. “Ugh! But I’ve been up all night getting my project together! Me and Gogo—”

“Gogo and I—”

“—are gonna rock the class. We’re even gonna get extra credit! I mean, not like either of us need it or anything, but still! It’s—the bragging rights!”

“Hiro has gotten approximately six hours of sleep over the past forty-eight hours,” Baymax offers. 

Hiro points at Baymax. “See?”

“I know, I know. I get it. It’s just that I’m so tied up at work…” she sighs. “It’s fine, I’m sure. Just…make sure to get it after class? If we run out of power, I’m gonna lose all the new refrigerated shipments we just got in, all the berries and butter and cream and…just promise me you’ll get there?”

Her face is earnest again, and Hiro settles back on his heels. “Fine, yeah. Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay!”

“Alright, then. Go get ‘em in class.” She pulls him into a fierce hug, running a hand through his hair despite his halfhearted protests, and lets him go. “And don’t you dare come home on your own. Catch a ride from Wasabi.” She pauses, frowning. “How are you gonna get there on time without him?

“Uh…” he casts a pleading glance at Baymax.

“I will walk you to the bus stop,” Baymax interjects.

Hiro laughs uncomfortably. “You know me—the bus. Just taking the long way. C’mon, Baymax.”

Without further discussion, they start through the door, Baymax turning to shut it carefully behind them. When he turns around, the boy is peering upward, frowning. Curious, Baymax follows his gaze to the heavy, dark clouds looming above. Winds tug the dark boughs of palm tree outside of the corner drugstore across the street, and pedestrians scurry around like frightened rodents, their collars as hunched as their backs.

Hiro rubs the back of his neck. Baymax could ask what this means, but he believes it is more useful in the long run for him to attempt to identify Hiro’s expressions for himself. The slight huff of breath and the wry twist to his lips give Baymax additional clues.

“You are not going to class?” he guesses.

“Nah. Gogo will understand. I think we’re gonna need that generator after all.”

“If you are not going to class, I will escort you to retrieve the generator.”

Hiro only offers him a one-armed shrug in return. He pauses to toss his rollerblades into his backpack, pulling his hoodie closer, though the scan reveals that despite the faint chill in the air, he is well within tolerable parameters for exposure to cold. Although the boy spent most of the morning excitedly explaining their new, ultra-light material to Baymax and pantomiming the class’s awestruck reactions, he’s oddly quiet now. Lost in thought, Cass would say.

That suits Baymax, though. He needs to think as well.

It’s such a small thing, after all. A minor gesture made for a family member is well within the acceptable social standards for human behavior. It is only reasonable that Hiro should drop everything to ensure his and his aunt’s continued security.

Still, as the quiet plinks of raindrops begin to echo across his stretched skin, Baymax wonders.

.

A hundred thousand years ago, Tomeo and Maemi Hamada were medical research scientists affiliated with the San Fransokyo Biomedical Foundation. Considering the average human lifespan, of course, this statement must be factually incorrect; Hiro is prone to such exaggerations, and Baymax has always assumed that this is his charge’s way of saying a very long time ago.

“Oh, they were so good at what they did.” Cass sighs as she stacks dirty plates in the bin on the table. Evening has crept over San Fransokyo, and the last of the customers linger instead of taking their chances out in the pouring rain. Every so often, a patron reluctantly throws the door open to brave the storm outside, and a burst of cold air tinged with the smell of saltwater and decaying leaves whips across the remaining guests, who shiver as though swept by a wet tongue. Hiro sits in the corner of the room nearest the heater, hair still damp from the downpour and hoodie laid out to dry across a table. He perches atop the glossy cardboard box for the new generator they have retrieved, wolfing down the roast beef sandwich Cass shoved into his hands. 

“You know the type—they were like Hiro. Smart as whips, both of them, my sister especially.” Cass pauses as she balances a series of mugs precariously, one over the other. “May was developing a treatment she hoped would cure a form of pancreatic cancer, and Tom oversaw most of the medical facility. They were a good match; everyone said so. Agh, big sisters,” she adds suddenly, tossing a teacup into the bin and running a hand through the hair at her temple, making the strands stick out like whiskers. “They’re always so much to live up to, you know? I just wish she was still around to see how far we’ve come.”

Baymax has learned most of this from Tadashi already. Some time ago, his creator explained that his parents’ professions were what originally inspired him to dabble in the field of healthcare in the first place. He meant to ensure that his parents’ drives to heal and innovate hadn’t died with them, and Baymax puffs himself up a little as he remembers this, remembers how much faith has been instilled into every wire and every character of his coding.

“According to Tadashi, both Maemi and Tomeo Hamada died saving countless lives,” Baymax notes. He does not phrase it as a question, allowing her to retreat from the conversation if she wishes.

Instantly, Cass’s hands still. “Did he say that?” she asks slowly, absently straightening the chairs. Her eyes seek out Hiro, who, having lost interest in his half-eaten sandwich, now sprawls across the floor at the base of the heater. Though previous experiments in this area have been unsuccessful, he is attempting to coax Mochi back into the rocket boosters that he invented for the feline. The cat appears to have its doubts.

“There was an incident up at the center…the serious kind, the kind where you get an official call in the middle of the evening before you even have the chance to wonder why your sister’s late for dinner.” She sinks into a seat, suddenly weary, and pats a nearby chair. Baymax slowly settles into it, his girth hanging to either side. “It was some kind of chemical reaction—I don’t really understand how it happened. I never had her kind of brain, or Hiro’s or Tadashi’s. Anyway, whatever it was, it happened when one of the employees messed up—it was some sort of chemical thing that broke through its accepted…zone. I don’t know. But May and Tom were heads of their departments, in charge of the majority of the people in that place, you know? I guess they…I know they felt responsible for everyone under them. So neither of them left. They just stuck around, making sure everyone got out alright. Breathing it all in’s what killed them. So I’m told.”

Cass takes a long, shuddering breath and lets it out. Her eyes are suspiciously glossy in the way that Hiro’s sometimes are when he speaks of Tadashi.

“You know, it’s been ten years, but I don’t believe it sometimes. The boys came to me when they were tiny. Hiro’s thirteen now, and sometimes it’s like I can’t figure out where all the time went because I just lost her yesterday.” Her smile grows wistful as she studies her nephew, watching him comply with Mochi’s yowling demands for a head scratching. “I miss her every time I look at Hiro. The eyes are the same.” Cass leans against the hard back of the seat. “She was the only one who called me Mimi, you know? For Kasumi. I hated that name. Still do. To everyone else, I was Cass. Now I wish she’d call me Mimi again. I’d probably kick her, but it’d be nice to hear.”

For all the time Baymax has spent with the Hamada family, he is still unsure of the protocol surrounding cheering up, at least in an organic, human fashion. Still, he has seen Cass’s efforts with Hiro and knows something that may help. He rises slowly, jarring the table so that the porcelain in the bin clinks softly. “Tea?” he offers. “Tea heals all wounds. So I’m told.”

Cass barks a laugh. She has, on countless occasions, set a cup of steaming tea before Hiro while offering the same expression. Baymax did not intend for his statement to be humorous, but the side effect of laughter is not undesirable.

“Chamomile with honey,” she says, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “Thanks, Baymax.”

In fact, chamomile has mild sedative effects on most humans—Cass often brews some before bed—and it may hamper her work later this evening. However, Baymax keeps the reminder to himself. Somehow, it seems appropriate to let it slide.

.

Thanks to Tadashi’s foresight and Hiro’s recent upgrades, Baymax’s internal memory circuits are highly advanced. As he scrolls through his data to remember how Cass makes tea, he can simultaneously pull up and review the recent memory that has been plaguing him.

Within his internal memory circuits, the gridded city of San Fransokyo spills out below him like neat lattice-work, its skyscrapers radiating gold in the fading sunlight. As he breezes through the tufts of stratocumulus clouds, Baymax’s thrusters strain against the autumn wind that whisks across the lower troposphere. This is not enough for him to suggest descending: Hiro has far too much fun on these excursions to end them early, and the excitement is good for his charge’s mental health.

From off-screen and behind him, there is a loud whooping sound. Hiro wriggles against his armor, alternately clinging and loosening his grip. “One more time?” he asks breathlessly. “C’mon, do it again.”

“Flying increases the amount of cortisol in your brain, but it does help your dopamine levels,” Baymax agrees readily, falling into a dive. As the air whistles past his metal suit, Hiro shouts and laughs exuberantly. Baymax turns his head slightly to get a visual of a pair of hands in the air as though Hiro believes he is descending a roller coaster. With absent curiosity, Baymax wonders what it must be like to be packed into such a fragile human body as it plummets to the earth, wonders what makes this diving phenomenon so special for his charge.

They plateau above the residential district, drifting past shingled rooftops and sloping streets that roll in gentle waves down to the distant bay. Still gasping, Hiro tries to catch his breath. “Best. Healthcare. Professional. Ever.”

Robots do not feel pride for a job well done. But as Baymax saves the statement in his long register of past praises Hiro has given him, he finds the number satisfying. “Shall we search for the others?” he asks instead, turning back to the high-rise buildings that loom farther off.

“Yeah.” Hiro flounces back down onto Baymax’s armor, his voice faintly wistful. “I guess we should at least act like we’re on duty, right?”

In the two months since the arrest of Professor Callaghan and the retrieval of his daughter, Hiro and his group of friends have taken to patrolling the city for any kind of danger, inspired at least in part by Fred’s wildly fantastic tales of superheroes. The group’s faces are never fully covered, but in a city teeming with several million inhabitants, there is still some speculation as to their exact identities. Of course, the lack of exposure hasn’t helped. Other than the intensity of their initial actions against Professor Callaghan, they have had few moments in the spotlight, and their exploits as a whole have been relatively tame: the previous week’s highlight included the rescue of a grey tabby from the outer ledge of a high-rise apartment. It is the only time Baymax can remember seeing Gogo spit out her gum in annoyance. 

Still, the excitement has still not yet faded, and their patrols have increased in frequency to five days a week. Hiro’s mind, like Tadashi’s, is quite fast for a human: the boy has the ability to pick up, comprehend, and discard complex materials at an alarmingly quick pace. Yet, for whatever reason, patrolling—and, specifically flying during patrols—has not yet ceased to amuse him.

“What is it about flying that you so enjoy? Is it simply the elevated dopamine levels?” Baymax asks curiously as they dart low through the streets, skimming the top of a city bus as their faint reflections stare back at them from the dusty metal.

“What?” Hiro asks from behind, his laughter catching in his throat as though he’s surprised. “No—how would I even know about that if not for you?” He extends an arm to brush through the foliage of a yellowed birch as they pass, coming away with a fistful of leaves that he releases slowly into the wind. Baymax turns his head to watch them whirl away like incense from the yoga studio Honey Lemon once dragged them to.

“Then what so draws your attention?”

Hiro snorts. “I don’t know. It’s fun. Don’t you feel it, too?”

Perhaps not in the same way, Baymax thinks, but the activity is oddly enjoyable. The steady whistle of the wind past his audio receptors as they ascend once more, the peaceful drifting of tethered blimps through the clouds, the streetlights blinking to life one by one below, joining and stretching until the roads weave like golden ribbons beneath the dusky pink sky. Hiro’s laughter is also pleasant. “I suppose so,” he concurs easily.

His charge hums and is quiet for a moment. “Besides, it gives me butterflies,” he adds suddenly. “In my stomach.”

“Butterflies in your stomach?” Baymax echoes uncertainly. “That does not sound probable—however, should you accidentally ingest insects during our descent, it may—”

“Ugh, not like that,” Hiro laughs again. “It’s an expression. It’s what happens when you’re—I don’t know, nervous, I guess. It means…you’re kind of excited and scared at the same time. You’re afraid to fall, so you don’t want to. But you also do.”

“That sounds…contradictory,” Baymax offers politely.

“It is,” Hiro agrees.

“And this is…a preferred state?”

A movement on Baymax’s back suggests a shrug. “For me, I guess. But I don’t think it’s for everyone.”

“I believe there are many things about you that are ‘not for everyone.’”

Hiro is quiet for several beats, and Baymax can almost imagine his facial expression, which will be torn between a curious, open gaze and a contemplative frown. “What’s that supposed to mean? Wai—…are you teasing me?”

Before Hiro can probe further, Baymax takes them into another steep dive, this one taking them toward the forest of skyscrapers. Neon signs and rows of crimson lanterns flick past in dizzying swirls. Now that he knows what to look for, Baymax feels Hiro stiffen even as he crows joyfully. Is this what he means by butterflies?

The shouting is broken by other shouts—screams. Baymax’s state-of-the-art sensors pick them up before his charge can react. “Hiro,” he says, slowing to hover above an apartment building, “I am sensing signs of distress from the next avenue.”

“Distress?” Hiro pants, still processing the chemical changes in his brain from the rush of their flight. “Uh, right—distress. Let’s check it out!”

They leave the relative peace of sprawling outer neighborhoods to cut through narrow alleyways rolling with the industrial stench of exhaust and rotting produce. Swarms of pedestrians fight for openings through the busy intersections here, and Baymax glides low enough that bystanders lean their heads back in openmouthed wonder as they pass. His balance is slightly askew at times thanks to Hiro’s periodic, anxious shifts as his charge cranes his neck to spot the source of the noise. With the chatter of the throngs spilling from the nearest transportation hub and packing onto the stationed monorail, it should be difficult for Baymax to select the sound he means to follow, but he switches his noise-cancelling program into place.

The problem is immediately apparent, because only part of the noise is screaming. The other part is the high-pitched keen of cable car brakes as the vehicle screeches uncontrollably down a steep descent down Haitaya Avenue, one of San Fransokyo’s busiest streets for its convenient straight shot from the business district down to the bay.

When Baymax hesitates for a beat too long, calculating and planning a trajectory, Hiro spots the danger and shuffles restlessly on his back. “Baymax, let’s go!”

Obediently, Baymax darts forward like a snapped rubber band, his processors working at astronomical rates. In the space of approximately two seconds, he has calculated:

First: At fifty-two point seven miles per hour, the heavy car is moving too quickly, perhaps even too quickly for him to stop with all of his not inconsequential strength. Even as he and Hiro speed toward it, the runaway car swipes through a busy intersection, miraculously making it past swerving vehicles and to the other side with only a clipped fender to show for it. 

Second: There is a sixty-three percent chance that Baymax will be unable to stop the speeding car at all.

Third: Although the consequences of this potential outcome are exceedingly lamentable, especially considering his duty to protect the health of those around him, the chances are extremely slim that the accident will prove fatal for Baymax in the strictest sense. Should he be crushed beneath the cable car or struck by another vehicle in the next intersection, Baymax’s files will be protected by the reinforced carbyne heart Hiro crafted to encase them following Baymax’s sacrifice in the portal. Hiro already has experience constructing an entirely new exterior for Baymax using the blueprints Tadashi left behind, and a second reconstruction should prove no trouble at all for a boy of Hiro’s genius.

Fourth, and most important by far: Hiro can reconstruct Baymax if his exterior is destroyed. Baymax cannot reconstruct Hiro. 

“I will be required to use my back to push against the vehicle,” he begins abruptly, slowing to touch down onto the asphalt with a rough jerk. “And it is probable that you will be hurt if you are nearby. I will need to set you down.”

“‘Set me down?’ As in ‘leave me behind?’”

It takes some effort to reach back and peel Hiro from the magnetic pods, especially with his charge’s frantic squirming. 

“Baymax, wait, let me help—” 

“The chances are relatively high that I will be unable to stop the vehicle,” Baymax explains, jetting back into the air before his charge can fully fix a mutinous expression to his face. Later, if all goes well, he will get an earful from Hiro about his decision, but Baymax feels improbably lighter already knowing that Hiro is safe.

Turning to the task at hand, he darts back into the air toward the cable car, weaving through street signs as he approaches. Pedestrians leap out of the way of the runaway car, and laced into the screams of the riders and the squeal of the brakes is the high-pitched whine of a distant siren, perhaps on the way to the disturbance. At the rate the car is barreling toward the next busy intersection and the waters of the bay, the approaching professionals may be too late. Baymax finally catches up with the vehicle, shooting to the front of the car where the driver is pulling desperately at the old-fashioned silvery handbrake. A few riders shoot him wild-eyed, panicked looks; a mother fearfully presses her children into her side “Do not be alarmed,” Baymax soothes over the clamor. “I am a healthcare professional.”

He turns to face the street ahead, planting his feet into the ground and exerting all his strength against the immense weight of the vehicle, the asphalt and metal tracks screeching against the metallic armor of Baymax’s legs. As predicted, the cable car begins to slow haltingly, though its deceleration is not quite fast enough to keep it from danger; a freckle-faced kid on a scooter yelps and dodges the speeding cable car; as they screech past, vehicles shudder to a stop, their drivers popping out of the doors and windows to watch the calamity in vacant horror. As a healthcare provider, Baymax is uncertain what to do—his programming balks at the prospect of allowing the car riders to come to harm, but his gears strain against the vehicle, physically incapable of ameliorating the situation.

It’s as he ponders this circumstances that he hears it, a sound he has tailored his audio receptors to recognize even in chaos like the explosive din of yelling and screaming passengers. 

“It’s alright,” Hiro’s voice soothes from somewhere behind him. “There you—go!” 

As well as he can manage, Baymax turns, grinding his shoulder into the front of the car. Somehow, Hiro has managed to clamber onto the side of the cable car—the magnetic pods at his joints being multifunctional, of course—where he is hoisting a young girl with a mop of curly blonde hair through a window. His charge is turned away, but Baymax can make out the determined furrow to his brow through the glass. He grunts, clumsily letting the girl dangle and then drop to the ground, where she crashes painfully but picks herself up.

“Hiro, it is not safe. You must get off of the cable car!” Baymax exclaims. He is not programmed to feel frustration, he reminds himself, nor is he programmed to worry. But if he were capable of either, now would be the time. “It is far too dangerous—”

“I’m—helping,” Hiro manages as a little boy wriggles over his shoulder, using him as a ladder to swing down onto the street with his sister. “Besides,” he adds stubbornly, “you’re here, aren’t you?”

Baymax does not have the time to elaborate on the illogic of Hiro’s decision—illogic that, Baymax is quite certain, Hiro fully comprehends and has disregarded. There are perhaps thirty seconds until the cable car reaches the next intersection, at a faltering speed now—still enough to get it into the busy street, to give it a fair chance of being rammed by the speeding vehicles.

Panting with effort, Hiro lifts another child from the car and then pulls himself to the top of the car, arms straining on the curved roof until he slumps onto it with relief. “C’mon, Baymax,” Hiro pleads from somewhere out of sight. “You gotta stop it. If not—”

“I—am incapable of—”

“Another angle, Baymax!” Hiro’s head pops over the edge of the car to peer down at him, gloved hands gripping the edge frantically as the vehicle rattles downhill. Out of the corner of his eye, Baymax sees a few passengers jump out to land bodily onto the pavement. “Use your thrusters! The rails don’t matter now!”

It is strictly against Baymax’s programming to damage anything, including city property, but through the prompting of his programmer, he is allowed to calculate the damage to the rails and the damage to the humans inside, weighing them one against the other. 

The latter will be far greater.

He starts his thrusters. The metal burns, faintly oozing and releasing a sickening stench under his feet, but it gives Baymax the extra power he needs to slow the car. He shoves his shoulder into the vehicle one last time, emptying his entire energy reserves into the action, and the car gives a long, low whine like a strangled bird, shuddering and decelerating exponentially. At last, it edges to a jerky halt just two feet into the intersection. Vehicles honk ferociously as they swerve out of the lane to avoid the Baymax and the front of the cable car, unaware of how close the unit came to barreling straight through.

The cable car driver swears loudly on the other side of the glass. A crying woman darts from the front door to hug her children in the street. Two businessmen sag in obvious relief against the interior seats. 

Hiro leans over, looping his hands into the rails until he can take all of this in upside down. Then, all skinny, coltish limbs, he shimmies awkwardly down the side of the car. 

“That was extremely dangerous,” Baymax says abruptly. Hiro must be aware of this, of course, but Baymax finds himself perplexed by his charge’s stillness, the momentarily weariness that slips across his face as he watches the mother wipe away tears, lick her thumb, rub at a bruised chin. “Your health was in jeopardy.” Baymax tries to make his voice come out with the same edge that Cass’s voice sometimes has when she is worried, but it sounds the same as it always does. 

Hiro turns to him then, the strange look disappearing. He pats Baymax’s side. “The cops are gonna get here soon, I bet,” he says, suddenly frowning under the grateful and curious eyes of the bystanders. “Let’s go before anybody with more authority than that driver guy shows up.”

He pushes Baymax gently, guiding him away from the crowd so that the violent shock of their takeoff will be tempered by the distance. “That was extremely dangerous,” Baymax repeats, slowing meaningfully so that his charge has to strain against his side. With Hiro, repetition is sometimes necessary.

“I know,” Hiro replies, ducking out from under Baymax’s arm to stare at the healthcare companion as if nothing is wrong. “You coming or what? Let’s finish the patrol.”

.

“Baymax! How’s it going?”

The memory blinks out abruptly. Wasabi thumps him on the back as he passes in what Baymax has learned is the rough equivalent of a fist bump. From the other room, Baymax can make out the others’ voices—Honey Lemon’s lilting tones threaded with the lazy roll of Fred’s laughter. 

“I am well,” he replies, setting the steaming cup of tea on a tray beside its necessary companions, a small jar of milk and a honey-filled bear of clear plastic. “How is your health?”

“You tell me.” This is Wasabi’s characteristic reply, though he never gives Baymax enough time to relay the results of his scan. Instead, he opens cupboards to rummage through them, the contents clinking gently. “Got kicked in the ass by Gogo and your boy Hiro’s project today. I don’t know how I didn’t expect it—think we’re tied for bonus points now.”

“Hiro has been working very hard.”

Wasabi snorts, pulling down a stack of small white plates. “Tell me about it. If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse him of pulling all-nighters. But I know you’d never allow it.” He peers curiously over his shoulder.

This is what Hiro would call a loaded statement. Baymax would not allow this if it were possible, but Hiro’s slumber patterns can be classified as erratic at best. 

On quiet nights, when Hiro has had no intense projects or challenges to distract him, he fidgets somewhere between sleeping and waking long after Baymax is supposed to have shut down for his recharging cycle. When he tires of the charade, Hiro pulls himself upright in bed and slips from beneath his blankets, padding barefoot across the floor to approach the partition separating his side of the room from Tadashi’s. Here, he always hesitates for a few moments, pausing with his arms stiff and hands against the screen as though bracing himself for a blow. 

When he finally brings himself to move the partition, Tadashi’s space looks as it always has, though perhaps a bit neater: tools and books in regimented rows, sheets pulled taut to military precision, baseball cap resting untouched on the center of the bed like a gravestone. Hiro’s back is always to Baymax as he hovers in that opening, but the healthcare companion can imagine that his face is the same mixture of distant weariness and sorrow he wears whenever he trails slowly past the framed pictures of his brother that still hang on the upstairs walls. It is always several minutes before he moves, but when he does, it’s with a shuddering jerk. As though chased by a ghost, Hiro leaps back into bed and draws the blankets to his chin. 

Any efforts to confront Hiro regarding this behavior end in a thin smile and a changed subject. 

It is only when he has meaningful work that Hiro gets any real sleep, though he typically pushes to get precious few hours of it. The boy has spent the past few days hunched over his latest project, eventually falling into a restless slumber over his desk with his scattered tools pressed into his arms until Baymax finally lifts him onto the bed. 

Wasabi, one dark eyebrow raised, is still waiting for Baymax’s response. “You had better believe it,” the healthcare companion says, emulating Cass. From Wasabi’s amused expression, the tone is not quite accurate.

“You done in here? I know shortcake and—um, eating—aren’t your thing, but you can come watch us eat and complain about our sugar levels,” Wasabi offers, deftly balancing the plates in the crook of his elbow as he begins searching the drawers.

“Actually,” Baymax begins suddenly. Then he hesitates. Tadashi never bothered to program the Hippocratic Oath into his coding, likely because Tadashi was more familiar with programming languages than medical practices. Still, Baymax thinks it might be best to keep Hiro’s secrets to himself when prudent.

Perhaps not now, though. Wasabi pulls a fistful of cutlery from the drawer and then pauses again, more inquiringly this time, to stare back at Baymax. “What is it?”

“I have a question,” he begins calmly. “Regarding Hiro.” 

Though he has made no overt movement, something in Baymax’s mannerisms must suggest the seriousness of the coming query. Frowning, Wasabi glances behind him and then leans back to pull the doorknob, shutting out the steady flow of conversation wheeling from the café. “What about Hiro?”

Baymax searches for a way to tell Wasabi without adding unnecessary mental distress. “He has been…stubborn recently. Three days ago, during a patrol, he ignored my indications for his safety.”

Wasabi leans back against the doorframe. “He’s a teenager. I mean—barely. That’s what they do, so he’s probably not going to be the most logical person ever for a while. It’s the hormones. You know. Well, I guess he’ll be logical with, you know, experiments, but maybe not with…life choices. It might not be easy for you to understand.”

“It is not,” Baymax clarifies, picking up the tea tray to have something to do with his hands. “I was programmed to understand humans, but the longer I am around Hiro, the less I understand him. It is a fascinating paradox.”

Wasabi’s eyebrows quirk in amusement. “Sure it is.”

“However, I believe this may be more than the expected adolescent hormonal imbalances,” Baymax replies. “Hiro has been...reckless with his health.”

“Reckless,” Wasabi parrots. “What do you—oh, wait, please tell me he didn’t actually take Fred up on the offer to smuggle him some beer, did he?”

“It is nothing like that. Hiro has been reckless with his health in a way that suggests he is unconcerned with bodily harm.”

“Hiro?”

“I do not understand the psychology of humans past my knowledge of the foundations of psychological treatments. It is still occasionally difficult to recognize patterns.” Baymax admits, steadying the tray. “However, it is a fact that Hiro has been affected by the death of loved ones at several points in his life. When he was very young, Hiro’s parents died saving the lives of their coworkers. As you know, Tadashi died attempting to save the life of Professor Callaghan.”

Baymax pauses. He does not know if he, too, can be considered a Hamada. Perhaps the more important question is whether or not Hiro considers Baymax to be a part of his family. However, his own sacrifice for Hiro—if it can be called that now that his memory circuits are still online—may also be a factor in Hiro’s condition.

“Baymax?” Wasabi prompts uncertainly.

“These events are unrelated in nature, but I believe it possible that Hiro sees connections where there are none,” Baymax continues. “It is possible that he is experiencing apophenia, in which humans find patterns in random or meaningless data. A nonexistent pattern may signal to Hiro a genetic or traditional inclination of the Hamada family toward incredible feats of selflessness. It is possible that he believes that the necessary course of action, considering the sacrifices of his family, is for him to make a similar sacrifice.”

Despite Baymax’s attempts to coordinate his words bluntly to cause little distress, Wasabi is unnaturally tense. He stares at Baymax with an intensity that the healthcare companion cannot interpret—something in the spectrum of fear or anger. “You think Hiro’s suicidal?”

“Not exactly,” Baymax revises. “I do not believe he would classify himself in that way. I am not even certain that this logic manifests itself in him as conscious thoughts or beliefs. But I do not believe he would actively attempt to die. He might just be apathetic about the possibility of death, especially a selfless one.”

Wasabi abandons the doorframe, stacking the plates onto the counter and bouncing up to sit on top of it. “You mean that he sees this pattern and thinks it’s normal?” he asks, running a hand through his strange, thick strands of hair. “I see what you mean, Baymax, but—I don’t think that’s what’s going on. Humans are—well, I guess that might be a part of it.” He sighs. Like Hiro, Wasabi occasionally has trouble articulating his rapid thoughts. “But I think you may be right in another way. Sometimes, when we lose someone, it becomes…harder to see the things around us. Not literally—I mean that we have a hard time noticing things like family, friends. A good time. The little things we like to do. We lose sight of all of that, and…suddenly it doesn’t look so bad to be with the people we love again.” He peers down at his feet for a moment, tapping his heels against the wooden cabinets, and Baymax realizes that these statements are spoken too casually, as though Wasabi is attempting to conceal emotion. The healthcare companion wonders if Hiro’s predicament is something with which Wasabi is intimately familiar. “Usually, it’s just passing thoughts. Intrusive thoughts, we call them. We all get them. But with Hiro losing Tadashi so recently…”

He sighs again, resting his elbows on his knees to hunch his back. Wasabi is relatively young—only a year older than Tadashi was—but the weight of his friend’s recent death seems to settle across his shoulders, making him look old beyond his years. “Just…for the next while, don’t patrol on your own with Hiro, alright? We’ll go as a team. No splitting up.”

“Understood,” Baymax allows.

“Not that—not that I think you can’t handle him,” Wasabi remarks apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “But—”

“It is occasionally difficult for me to interpret humans’ emotive states and psychological responses, and I am not always certain how to interact accordingly.”

“Uh, I guess.”

“There is no need to apologize. My goal is to see that Hiro is in the best of health, however that comes to pass.”

“Right,” Wasabi breathes, looking lost. His eyes fall across the stack of plates at his side. “Let’s…I don’t know. See what’s up. I need to think about this.” He arranges the plates and cutlery in his arms, and Baymax wordlessly waits for him to compose himself. “And by the way—let him eat the shortcake, yeah?”

“I do not believe that his sugar intake is the bigger concern at the moment. Shortcake will make Hiro happy.”

“Right,” Wasabi repeats, relieved. After a second, he pushes the door open, and the warm glow of the café lamps falls across him. At a table near the window, Fred and Gogo drool over a shortcake Cass has pulled from behind the counter, the strawberries sliced into delicate strips and fluffed into tiny, flowery ornamentations around the whipped cream.

“Oh my God, it took you guys so long!” Fred says exuberantly, throwing his hands into the air. As soon as Wasabi is within reaching distance, he swipes the plates and forks from him. “Dude, is it even legal to eat something that looks this good?”

Wasabi ignores him. His and Baymax’s gazes are drawn toward Hiro, who is crouched in the corner of the room beside Honey Lemon. The pair of them hunches over Mochi’s plump, thruster-clad figure, their faces eerie in the bright blue glow of the exhaust. Honey Lemon coos as the cat attempts to hover high enough to reach whatever Hiro holds in his hand. “Baymax! Wasabi! Come see!” she cries excitedly, motioning them over.

Obediently, they approach. The cat yowls anxiously, legs wriggling slightly as it rises in the air toward Hiro’s handful of—peanuts.

“I believe it is not always appropriate for cats to eat human foods, Hiro,” Baymax says conversationally.

“What? He loves this stuff,” Hiro retorts, grinning. To prove his point, he holds out a peanut closer to Mochi’s mouth, and, after a wobbly start, the cat manages to hover near enough to get it.

In fascination, Baymax leans in to watch the cat crunch aggressively, head bobbing up and down. “You are correct. Perhaps I should download a database on feline health requirements,” Baymax offers. The healthcare companion can’t always recognize human expressions, but Wasabi, Honey Lemon, and Hiro exchange a look that Baymax has come to recognize definitively: amusement.

“Sure, Baymax!” Hiro chirps, ducking just in time to avoid having his hair singed by the thruster flames as the cat passes by. “Also, you could maybe look up more about their balance. Mochi’s not as good at this as you’d think, considering how often he lands on his feet when he jumps down the stairs.”

“Still pretty good for a first shot,” Wasabi offers diplomatically.

“Isn’t it, though?” Hiro’s mouth stretches into a wide grin as he stares up at his pet, and he bounces excitedly on his toes. 

The tension ebbs from Wasabi’s shoulders, the smile seeming to reassure him. “Damn, Hiro—were you doing this in addition to your class project?” he asks, laughing suddenly. “I gotta watch out for you!”

Hiro’s smile, almost as thin and watery as the ones he offers when caught staring at reminders of Tadashi, does nothing to reassure Baymax.

.

Later, the streets outside brim with water, all of it cascading steadily toward the bay. In the sky, dark clouds cement together to make early evening look like midnight. The room is empty now: the patrons have all swum home, and Hiro’s friends have likewise disappeared. It’s just Hiro, arms resting on the sill and forehead pressed against the window. His face, lit by the café lamps, reflects brightly in the glass window as he watches the downpour, his mouth an open O as sheets of solid water pound the pavement. In the kitchen, Cass cleans silverware, her low hums echoing off the tile.

“I don’t remember ever seeing a storm this bad in my life,” Hiro says offhandedly. He doesn’t tear his eyes from the rain. “It’s like a month’s worth of water all trying to get to the ground at the same time.”

“Records indicate that a storm of similar proportion occurred the winter before your birth, and another two decades prior,” Baymax says helpfully. 

“Huh.” Hiro watches an abandoned umbrella rip past the window and skitter across the empty road. “Wonder if Tadashi—”

The lights flicker and die, and along with them the steady murmur emanating from the café televisions. Baymax’s night vision system automatically boots up to register Hiro’s surprised jolt as he pulls away from the glass pane. In the kitchen, Cass shuts off the water.

“Hiro?” 

“We’re fine.”

Almost too quickly for Baymax to adjust to the darkness, the lights blink back on. He tilts his head in curiosity at the televisions, which roar with a pale rain of swarming white and black dots. “The television…”

“Must be having problems with cable,” Hiro says absently, moving over to run his arm down the button panel at the side.

Cass appears in the doorway and leans against the frame, her expression wry. “Aren’t you glad I made you get the generator?” 

“Good thing too—melted chocolate’s only good if you mean for it to be melted.”

To Baymax’s surprise, she bursts into laughter. “Remember after the quake—how long ago was that?—you and Tadashi and I had to eat all the ice cream and pastries—”

“Oh, yeah, before they went bad? ‘Course I remember. I was like six; that was the best time of my life so far. I thought I died and went to heaven.”

Cass snorts. “And you only ate the chocolate stuff. Tadashi left a lot of it for you, thinking he was being nice—”

“Ohhh, and I was super sick the next day. Like, couldn’t even leave the bed.”

“That wasn’t one of my proudest parenting moments,” Cass admits, grinning. Hiro returns it, this one a genuine, unrestrained grin, until he jumps in surprise at the sudden booming noise from the televisions. 

“…are still experiencing the highest rainfall we’ve seen in over a decade, and as you can see behind me, the water shows no signs of stopping anytime soon…”

Cass leaps for the remote control to lower the volume. “Cable’s back,” she says unnecessarily. “Gosh, I didn’t realize how bad it was…” Crossing the screen are images of reporters standing in rising waters, soaked residents clad in rain boots wading through inches of water on their way home, cars streaming past like jet skis and leaving rough waves in their wake. 

“…the worry is that there will be more violent mudslides throughout Matsumount Prefecture, which may leave residents…”

At these words, Hiro and Cass, who have been watching with modest, sympathetic interest, snap to attention like Mochi at a loud noise. “Where does Mrs. Matsuda live again?” Hiro asks. His eyes are wide.

“She lives out there,” Cass confirms, one hand drifting up to her mouth. “I hope she’s alright.”

Baymax wouldn’t need sensors to tell him that Hiro’s stress levels are rising slowly: he shifts uneasily, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Baymax is about to bring this to his attention when Hiro turns abruptly on his heel to sweep into the kitchen. Cass stands frozen in front of the television, so Baymax hesitates and then drifts after his charge.

In the seconds it has taken Baymax to reach the threshold, Hiro has pulled several drawers open to rummage through their contents, tossing yellowed receipts, paper tape, notepads, and other odds and ends onto the granite countertops. Though his movements seem aimless, there is a firm set to his jaw that always indicates the onset of a project.

“What are you looking for?” Baymax wonders, peering over Hiro’s shoulder.

“Ah…envelopes. Aunt Cass usually…” he trails off, thumbing through a stack of worn papers, brow furrowed.

Baymax waits. “Usually?”

“Usually keeps the cards in this drawer when we get them. I’m looking for Mrs. Matsuda's address.”

“Do you usually keep the addresses of your café patrons?”

“Not for everyone. But Mrs. Matsuda's a regular. She’s been coming here probably as long as I’ve been alive, and—I don’t know, she comes to all me and Tadashi’s stuff. She was at the convention when I showcased the microbots, even though I know she’s not even into…you know, science-y stuff. Sends us card for birthdays…ha!” Triumphantly, Hiro slides an envelope out from the pile, running his fingers over the neat script address. He turns to look at Baymax, frowning.

“She is a friend of yours?”

Hiro’s nose wrinkles, which happens alternately when he is disgusted or amused. Baymax guesses it’s the latter this time. “Not exactly. She’s so weird. You’ve seen her—who wears ostrich feather hats, anyway? But she’s….always here.” His eyes are pleading. “She lives alone out in Matsumount.”

Baymax does a quick scan. “Your cortisol levels are slightly elevated and your breathing rate is increasing. You are worried for her health?”

Hiro nods. “She lives alone,” he repeats softly. 

Baymax asks even though he knows what Hiro will say. “Will assisting Mrs. Matsuda help your current mental state?”

Hiro smiles, hiking up his shoulders sheepishly. “Yeah. Thanks, Baymax.”

He swallows, and, without so much as a warning, drags Baymax back into the café to prod him toward the stairway. “C’mon, Baymax,” he says loudly, “let’s work on your program for—uh, wrestling, huh?”

“You have already programmed me to—”

“Not enough, though, c’mon—”

He manages to press Baymax up the stairs. Below, Cass stares unblinkingly at the news report, leaning forward in the hard-backed café chair, arm outstretched with the remote as though she’s forgotten to put it down.

.

Somewhere between the lighted Kingeto Bridge stretching ghostlike across the foggy bay and the dark hills leading to Masumont, Baymax begins to wonder again what it must be like to have the feeling of butterflies in one’s stomach. He cannot imagine that such a feeling is pleasant, especially given the tendency of humans to react to insects of any kind with fright and revulsion. By logical extrapolation, the sensation of an insect crawling through one’s organs would be equally unpleasant.

But from the way Hiro normally reacts to this described sensation, laughing at every steep drop and throwing his arms into the air, having butterflies must be somewhat pleasing. 

Now, though, Hiro is still and tense on Baymax’s back, peering over the armor plating on his shoulder to watch the world speed past below. Cold rain batters them as the metallic grid of San Fransokyo falls away, the city somber and quiet under the weight of its power outage. Few vehicles hum past as Baymax navigates the skies, and without the GPS to keep to their planned trajectory, he might not recognize many of the darkened buildings or landmarks flicking through the sheets of rain. 

Apartment complexes give way to suburban sprawl, which gives way to scattered homes perched along ridges.

“I think we’re close,” Hiro coughs. Baymax only hears him over the thundering rain thanks to his noise-cancelling software, which mutes the steady roar. “She lives by the creek, I think.” The feature in question, typically a steady flow a few feet wide, has swollen to engulf the neighboring trees and countryside. “This doesn’t look so good, Baymax.”

“My GPS indicates that her house is just ahead,” Baymax replies, and Hiro wriggles up the slick armor to get a better look. Small houses are sprinkled through the dark trees, and once Baymax flicks his floodlight on, they look like pale stars in the night. As they close in, Baymax does a few rapid calculations to confirm that despite the rising waters, the houses are far enough from the river that they are extremely unlikely to take any damage from flooding.

Baymax lands near the driveway of Mrs. Matsuda's home, his feet squelching in the soft mud, which swallows several inches of his legs. Hiro leaps off his back to land lightly and easily pads away through the rain to study the blackened windows of the house.

“C’mon, Baymax,” he calls. “Let’s just—check in, I guess? Actually, this is super weird. What do I even say if I knock on the door?”

“Perhaps you should state your intentions.” With some effort, Baymax pulls his limbs from the mud and makes his slow way to his charge’s side. “I would suggest: ‘I was worried for your safety and came to ensure that you and your home are in sound condition.’”

Hiro shakes his head, water rolling off his helmet. “Yuck. What if she pinches my cheeks or something?”

Baymax tilts his head curiously. “I am certain the discomfort would be relatively minor and fleeting.”

“The physical pain, maybe,” Hiro says under his breath. “Anyway, it’s probably better if I didn’t. I don’t know if it’s a good idea for Mrs. Matsuda to see us flying out at night—she might tell Aunt Cass. Could you just do me a favor and scan the area? Check the trees within falling distance of the house for faults, check the structural integrity of the house...okay?”

“I will be thorough,” Baymax confirms. Hiro nods, squares his shoulders, and walks up the steps to the porch, peering surreptitiously into the darkened house.

The cottonwood tree in front of the porch is in excellent condition, a twenty-year growth nearing its prime. Baymax scans its root structure to find that its hold is firm, and it is unlikely to topple in these winds. Satisfied, he squelches slowly around the side of the house to do a complete scan, pulling his feet from the gelatinous mud with each step.

“I can’t even see if she’s in there. The power’s out,” Hiro hisses, hands cupped around his eyes as he looks through the window. 

Baymax is about to respond that the most logical plan would be to simply knock and speak to his friend in person when he moves close enough to see the rear of the house. The broad branches of an oak tree shield most of the roof from the downpour, meaning that Baymax’s view of the damage was blocked during their flight.

“Hiro.” He must be getting better at lacing his voice with human expression, because Hiro looks up instantly, his face stricken. 

After a beat, he leaps from the porch and jogs to Baymax’s side. From this direction, he can see that the back of the house has collapsed entirely, the roof crushing the floors below at steep angles, with piles of shattered glass and fragmented wood around the sides. Using words he no doubt learned from Gogo and Wasabi, Hiro swears violently and starts forward; Baymax grabs his shoulder.

“A moment,” he demands, scanning the ground for further anomalies. Hiro waits impatiently for Baymax to finish, and Baymax takes advantage of a few extra seconds to consider how to impress what he needs to say onto his charge.

“The rainwater has inundated the ground here, making it very unstable,” he manages at last. “We will have to proceed carefully.”

“Got it,” Hiro replies, pulling away. “Mrs. Matsuda?” he calls, shouting above the rain that pounds the fallen structure. “Mrs. Matsuda, are you okay?”

A faint tremor creeps through the ground to Baymax’s feet. Hiro stops short. “Earthquake?” he asks Baymax incredulously.

Baymax considers. “No. The inundation of water has caused erosion of the surrounding lands. We are likely feeling the repercussions of a small mudslide.”

Wordlessly, Hiro turns back to the house. “Mrs. Matsuda?”

This time, with his noise-reducing software still running, Baymax hears a faint sound. “Hiro, I believe someone is attempting to communicate from a position in the southwest corner of the house.”

“Southwest. Wait, where?” Hurriedly, Hiro approaches the corner of the house. “Hello? Mrs. Matsuda?”

Baymax strains his sensors. A tiny voice cries, “Here!”

“There is a response from the corner of the home. Someone is inside. Vocal patters indicate that this inhabitant is younger than Mrs. Matsuda.” Yet this presents a dilemma: according to Baymax’s scans, the house is dangerously precarious; any attempt to remove pieces of the rubble may backfire by inciting a total collapse. The main pieces are held up so haphazardly that the smallest movement could prove fatal.

Hiro is desperately searching the fragmented home, running his hands over the rubble, but he moves nothing: he seems to have intuitively recognized the same thing Baymax’s scans have told him. “There’s gotta be a way to help. We gotta do something.”

“I have alerted the authorities.”

Hiro shakes his head frantically. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll be stretched too thin with weather like this. Who knows when they’ll get here…”

He trails off, squatting suddenly. Baymax follows Hiro’s line of sight to see a small opening, only a little over two feet wide, between the thick roof beams. Hiro leans in closely to peer through the darkness.

“I think—I can…” Experimentally, he wriggles closer, nearly inside, when Baymax puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Do not enter the home. It is too great a hazard for your health, and the potential for further mudslides has not waned.”

“She needs help in there,” Hiro replies, shrugging Baymax’s hand off. “And I’ll be careful. It’s like a game: swipe Tadashi’s handheld without touching anything else in the room, go!” And before Baymax can react, he crawls into the opening. The hole is so low to the ground that Baymax must almost lie down in the mud, propped up on an elbow, to see into it. He switches on his floodlight to see Hiro’s legs as he gingerly crawls over a fallen beam without so much as brushing against it.

“Be careful, Hiro,” Baymax calls. Hiro does not reply, and in a few moments, he has turned past a thick metal duct to move where the light does not reach.

The minutes of waiting are agonizing. Baymax remains unmoving, sinking inch by inch into the black mud. With his free arm, he slicks rain from the floodlight, adjusting it to brighten as much of the opening as possible for Hiro’s return.

This was not a patrol. There was no reason to contact Wasabi and the others as promised. Yet now that Hiro has endangered his own health by slipping into a structurally damaged building, Baymax wishes he had what Hiro calls backup. For all of Baymax’s programming, he still has continually found himself unable to keep Hiro from carelessly throwing himself into situations like this over the past few months. Perhaps the humans of their newly formed team would have done better. Though it is impossible to state this for certain without testing all of the variables, Baymax feels doubtful that their efforts would have helped.

Baymax peers into the dark opening and ruminates on how much of Hiro he does not and may never understand. Butterflies, for example, and an emotion so strong his charge would endanger himself to follow it.

At last, Baymax registers that Hiro has switched on his helmet microphone. His panicked voice carries clearly through Baymax’s speaker.“Baymax? I’m gonna need your help.”

Baymax sits up, leaning backward to scan the structure again. “What is the situation? The house is at too precarious an—”

“Not with moving anything. That’d be like—I don’t know, Jenga or something. No, it’s Mrs. Matsuda's granddaughter. She has asthma. She’s…her breathing is too fast—the inhaler’s crushed somewhere. Baymax, I don’t know what to do.”

The situation is highly impractical, though this is not something he will express to Hiro: asthma is triggered by dust and debris, which are certainly sifting through the air from the fractured bones of the broken house, as well as stress and panic, which any reasonable child would feel under these circumstances. There is nothing to do but mitigate her symptoms until she can be brought to a health facility.

The silence seems to unnerve Hiro. “Baymax?”

“Calm her as well as you can. Have her sit upright if the area allows in order to give her chest the space it needs to expand. Practice exaggerated, slow breathing as an example for her to emulate.”

“Okay,” Hiro says to the girl, his voice shaking slightly in Baymax’s feed. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, Satsuki…” He relays the information and begins to breathe steadily. Baymax listens to each long inhale and exhale through the microphone and imagines it calming Hiro as well as the girl. 

While Hiro demonstrates, Baymax continues: “The dust and debris will aggravate her condition. She must be brought to a medical facility as soon as possible. Do you believe she and Mrs. Matsuda can be moved outside?”

“We’ll move,” Hiro replies firmly. “Mrs. Matsuda, we’re gonna need to get out of here to get her to a doctor. Do you think you can move back the way I came from first? Baymax will shine a light for you so you can see.”

Obediently, Baymax leans back down and steadies the floodlight attached to his armor. After a minute, a movement from farther off catches the light; something pale flutters like a curtain. Mrs. Matsuda, dressed in what looks like a nightgown, crouches to crawl forward haltingly, stumbling every now and then and once uttering a loud “Oh!” that makes Hiro call out to see if she’s alright. Finally, she pokes out from the hole like a dazed animal, wearing a thin, electric blue dress and shivering in the rain.

“Good thing you two were here,” she tells Baymax shakily, shuffling beside him as though he can lend her warmth. Within seconds, the rain has drenched her entirely, transforming her slate grey hair to a deep charcoal. “Damn good thing.” Other than the warranted high stress levels, Mrs. Matsuda appears to be in good condition. 

From the grit of her jaw, though, Baymax guesses that she is fighting back tears. Before he can inquire after her health, she crouches down and cups her hands around her mouth. “Hiro?” she calls. “Is Satsuki alright?”

Hiro pauses in his steady, deep breaths to tell Baymax that they are fine, and the healthcare companion relays the information. “Mrs. Matsuda is safely outside, Hiro,” he adds quickly.

His charge’s voice does not waver. “Okay, Satsuki. We’re gonna have to move you now, okay? I know it’s gonna be rough, but we’ll take it nice and slow so you can focus on deep breaths; keep breathing like I do. Listen.” Hiro inhales pointedly, and Baymax can hear the rattle of her breath echoing through the feed. “Ready?”

A slight tremor catches Baymax’s attention; Mrs. Matsuda whips around, hugging her thin arms. “That’s not right,” she murmurs. Trying to keep his floodlight as steady as possible, Baymax turns his head to look at the patches of darkened trees that sprout like ink stains from the wet ground. The San Fransokyo region is no stranger to earthquakes, and the vibration is similar to the distinctive tremors, but Baymax cannot be certain: none of his instruments register seismic activity.

There is no sign that his charge has perceived any anomaly. “Hiro, I believe—”

Another tremor comes, this one larger. “Did you feel that?” Mrs. Matsuda asks fearfully.

In the distance, the earth begins to flow like water, in rough little eddies. Trees tilt and are devoured by the mud; a wooden fence sinks post by post into the drift.

“Hiro, the ground is unstable. You must come out.”

“Satsuki’s moving slow and steady—be out in a minute.”

“You have at most seconds: the nearby mud flow will render the ground too unstable, and the house will collapse.”

“Mud fl—? Okay, I hate to do this, but get on my back.” The sound of shuffling, Hiro grunts, and the girl’s wheezing breaths become louder. “Okay?”

“Okay,” the girl pants shakily, her voice near the microphone.

Something appears in the back of the dark opening. Hiro comes slowly but purposefully, burdened by the girl’s weight. The path narrows, the beams jutting low to the ground, and he eventually must crawl on hands and knees to allow for her additional height on his shoulders. As they near the entrance, even this is not enough.

“On your own,” he grunts, lowering himself flat onto the ground. “It’s too small. Go ahead—Baymax’ll get you.”

Shakily, the girl wriggles from his back and onto the ground in front of him, threading her way through the wreckage. Baymax reaches his arm out to her. Mrs. Matsuda prods his back. “It’s coming, it’s coming!”

He turns to find the earth rolling past just yards nearby, bushes spilling into the river of dirt and stone. “Quickly,” Baymax says urgently, and the girl clasps his hand at last. He pulls her out and into his arms with perhaps more force than is strictly necessary; she’s a tiny, fragile thing, all wiry limbs and stringy hair. “Hiro?”

“Coming,” Hiro grunts, and Baymax hears it from the microphone and from the opening; his charge, pale in the light Baymax casts into the hole, clambers over the broken glass and through bent wood. The house shudders above him, trails of dust and scraps of debris leaking onto his armor, and Hiro can move faster than he is currently moving; Baymax is sure of it.

“Quickly,” Baymax repeats, the roar of the moving earth echoing around him. Hiro must hear it, must sense the wreckage tilting and pressing in around him, because he darts forward all at once and throws out an arm to Baymax, who pulls him roughly from the house.

A low creak echoes through the fallen structure as the interior collapses, the shards of wood and metal leaping forward to spill across the mud near their feet; with the girl still in his arms, Baymax grabs Hiro around his middle and pushes Mrs. Matsuda across the yard. The girl, Satsuki, is half sobbing, half gasping for breath, pulling short, dark hair from her face to stare at the house’s broken skeleton.

“This way—over here,” Mrs. Matsuda says, tugging Hiro’s arm. Baymax straightens and releases his charge to see that she is dragging them to safety: in the distance on the paved road is a growing crowd of what must be her neighbors, all of them moving away from their houses in panic. 

Hiro wordlessly starts off toward them, Mrs. Matsuda following, though she can’t help but look back with wide eyes at the dirt slowly engulfing her home. Trotting next to Baymax, she takes Satsuki’s arm and gives it a squeeze. The girl’s breaths are almost frantic, and Hiro stares in alarm.

“Baymax, go,” he says.

“Go?”

“Satsuki needs help, more help than we do. You know she does. You can’t fly all of us out of here, and we’ll be alright now that we’re out of the way. The mud’s not moving so fast. We’ll stay out of buildings and stick to the road.”

The statement makes sense. Baymax has the illogical desire to stay at Hiro’s side, but Satsuki is scrabbling against his armor in her panic, as though a firm handhold will make everything alright. He needs to calm her down, and that will be far easier to do in the air, away from the frightening wreckage that looms around them.

“I am your healthcare companion,” he states uncertainly.

Mrs. Matsuda kisses the girl’s hands. “It’s alright, Satsuki. Stick with this one; he’ll get you safe. I’ll see you soon.” 

Both the girl and Mrs. Matsuda are drenched and shivering. Satsuki’s breaths ring loud in his ears. Hiro shakily sidles up to Mrs. Matsuda and gives him a meaningful glance. 

Baymax pulls the girl more firmly into his chest. “Stay safe, Hiro.” There is more he could say, but instead, he activates his thrusters and jets into the cool night air. The ground drops away below them, shifting and sinking like the waters of the bay, and Baymax watches Hiro shrink away until even his enhanced zoom feature can’t pick him out in the darkness. 

.

Baymax has never been the best judge of expressions, but the faces of the incoming refugees are even more difficult to decipher than usual. They are all half-open mouths and limp limbs, tottering parents and dazed children. Absently shivering in their drenched clothes, they drift through the hospital doors as aimlessly as a horde of balloons, floating untethered to settle across the waiting room seats, lean against the walls, or cluster and cling to one another like lifelines. 

Thanks to their innovative armor, Hiro has been feeding his health scans and GPS location to Baymax for almost as long as they have been apart. Though the battery is running low, he contacted the healthcare companion briefly to state that he would meet him here at the hospital. Baymax waits stiffly at the entranceway, passing the time by studying faces as the crowd seeps steadily inward from the dark, wet night. 

Satsuki rests in a bed upstairs. Without a more efficient way to treat her for shock on the way to the hospital, Baymax had her close her eyes to calm her down. Her violent shivers and dropping blood pressure were worrying, but she fell asleep in his arms somewhere near the city limits. Vastly over quota for daily health shocks, the hospital staff barely batted an eye at the armor-clad robot carrying an asthmatic child. 

When Hiro finally wanders in with Mrs. Matsuda, Baymax barely recognizes them; they wear the same bedraggled, shell-shocked expressions that Baymax’s facial recognition software has been processing all night. With Baymax’s bright red armor and hulking size, they spot him right away.

“Satsuki?” Mrs. Matsuda asks curtly. She is panting as though they have run a long distance—for all Baymax knows, they may have—and she has either produced or found a wide-brimmed straw hat that has kept her face dry of the rainwater that has soaked the rest of her body. 

“She is safe in room 2359. The doctors have tended to her—” 

Mrs. Matsuda is already halfway across the room. “Sorry!” she says, half turning without really slowing down. “I need to see her.”

Not at all perplexed by the reaction, which he feels he understands better than most human actions he has encountered in the past few months, Baymax turns instantly back to Hiro. His charge has broken out of his vacant trance to rub his eyes. “Geez,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the faint warble that usually signals exhaustion. “Didn’t realize all that that was going to happen. Is this the same night?”

Baymax leans in to scan Hiro’s systems again. “Are you experiencing nausea and dizziness?”

“I don’t have a concussion.” Hiro’s lips quirk upwards. “Just tired, I guess. It’s—been a long night. Satsuki’s alright?”

“She is fine,” Baymax replies, eager to relay the rest of the information Mrs. Matsuda ignored. “Her condition has much improved since her admission to the hospital. The doctors have brought up her temperature and given her beta agonists through her nebulizer.”

“Good. She was really—” he pauses. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

“Your scans indicate that you are experiencing fatigue. It would be best for us to retreat to the house.”

Hiro frowns doubtfully. “Maybe we should stick around, just to be sure.”

“Mrs. Matsuda and Satsuki are both in good condition, thanks predominantly to your efforts. There can be little else to help them but rest. You should also rest, Hiro.”

“I know. I just wanna make sure they’re okay.”

“I believe they are as ‘okay’ as it is possible to be in their present conditions.”

Hiro nods, crossing his arms stubbornly, and Baymax resigns himself to remaining in the waiting room. A host of refugees mills about, shuffling aimlessly and talking on cell phones in low, urgent tones. Most don’t even spare them a passing glance, though Hiro removes his armor, clicking the pieces off and snapping them together to transform them into their own magnetic carrying case before wandering toward an empty corner of the waiting room. 

Baymax watches him drape himself across the seats, eyes drooping sleepily as he tries to get comfortable. He should let his charge rest, but Baymax finds that he desperately needs an answer to the question he has been pondering for such a long time.

“Hiro?”

Hiro hums, a low noise that sounds like the contented purr Mochi makes when curled by the heater.

“Do you intend to die?”

Hiro reacts languidly, pulling his eyes open to stare at Baymax in stupor. Then he straightens, tensing like he’s been stabbed.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Baymax tilts his head. “I have not wanted to mention it without some study of your behavior, but you have exhibited several reckless tendencies in the past several months. It is not atypical for those touched by the death of a loved one to consider joining them in death themselves, especially through ‘intrusive thoughts.’ Apparently, humans do not enjoy ‘negative’ labels such as ‘suicidal,’ and I do not believe you would take your life outright, but you have a somewhat disturbing tendency to offer it up for others, much in the same way members of your family have done in the past. If you are seeking to emulate the nobility of your family, I would prefer that you not do so in this instance,” Baymax says matter-of-factly. 

He had expected to be interrupted by Hiro, who prefers his health issues to remain unspoken, but the boy is staring at him, openmouthed. After a moment, Hiro throws his head back in a sharp, incredulous laugh, leaning back in the seat of his chair to cover his eyes with his hand.

The reaction is odd. “I am incorrect?”

“No. I’m just not sure how you figured it out, that’s all. And then I’m an idiot for thinking you wouldn’t.” Hiro’s eyes droop again, and for a moment, Baymax fears that he won’t get any more answers, but the fatigue seems to loosen Hiro’s tongue.

“I don’t know, Baymax, I—I don’t want to die. Or I don’t think so. It’s more like I’m—okay with it. If it happens, I mean. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, and maybe…” He frowns. 

Baymax waits for him to speak again. When he doesn’t, the healthcare companion prompts him: “Say more.” There are probably more organic ways to prod his friend into speaking, but he is too curious to resort to human padding and colloquialisms. 

Hiro scrubs at his cheek. “It’s stupid.”

Baymax’s past interactions with Hiro suggest that his friend will often fill the silence if given enough time to string his thoughts together. Humming patiently, he makes himself a statue, a non-judgmental receiver of information. Hiro does not disappoint.

“It’s just me now. My whole family’s gone, and they were all scientists and doctors and engineers. I mean, I only got into engineering in the first place because Tadashi was into it. He bought me that dumb engineering set when I was little, the kind that comes with all the pre-packaged pieces you can stick together, but they call it engineering anyway. And Tadashi…without him, it’s like I’m frozen here. Stuck, ‘cause I don’t know what to do. It’s like I’m waiting, waiting for someone—to decide what I’m gonna become and who I’m gonna be.”

“Why don’t you get to decide?”

He smiles roughly. “Maybe it’s too hard of a decision for me to make on my own. Before, I was following Tadashi, and everything was okay. Tadashi was…everything. No matter what happened, he was there for me. Guiding me, so I knew what to do and where to go. He’s the one that got me into the San Fransokyo Institute in the first place! Now that he’s gone, though, it’s like…as long as I don’t choose, I don’t mess up.”

“You continue to make choices,” Baymax argues.

“Nothing major. I don’t know how I could. What do I even do after school? It’s like—the last gift Tadashi gave me, a few years where I know what I’m supposed to do. All I know is that I’m still following him, thinking about helping people, healthcare stuff, because it’s what he would have done, and it’s so lonely thinking about what he would have done that I wish I could…” Hiro’s grits his teeth and looks away. “I don’t know, Baymax.”

Baymax hesitates. “Hiro, the choice to wait for death is still a choice.”

Hiro’s eyes get large and watery. “Yeah, but—I don’t know what to do. I just miss him so much, all the time, and how am I supposed to…do I just live like normal? After what he did—and my parents? Or is that who I’m supposed to be, like them?”

“Are you speaking of your tendency to emulate their acts of heroic sacrifice?”

“I mean, you said it. Not me.”

Baymax nods. Sensing heightened emotional distress, he pulls Hiro into a hug before the boy can react. “Hiro, I do not believe you are ‘supposed’ to be anything.”

“Yes, I am,” Hiro replies stubbornly, pushing against Baymax’s chest in vain. Baymax wishes he had taken off his armor. After a brief struggle, Hiro sighs and leans into the metal. “I’m a Hamada. I—we—help others. With our lives. With our deaths…and is that all we are? Is that what I do now?” He sighs, a quick and frustrated thing. “If Tadashi was here…”

“Tadashi would not want you to throw your life away,” Baymax says with certainty.

“I’m not throwing it away. And it’s not what he’d say that matters. I mean, of course he’d tell me…he’d say he wanted me to stay safe. He’d say he never wanted any of this for me, or for any of us. He wouldn’t have wanted us out risking our lives every point five seconds. He built you for Pete’s sake—to help people, for healthcare—that’s the kind of person he was.”

“If you do not think that Tadashi would want you to follow in his footsteps to sacrifice your life, then what makes you believe that you should?”

Hiro shakes his head slowly. “It’s just—what he did. Actions speak louder than words. He ran into the fire to help the professor, and…it’s just a lot to live up to.”

“Then you have to live up to it.” Baymax says. Perhaps he has finally managed to alter his voice to assert an emotive state similar to Cass’s no-nonsense voice, because Hiro looks startled, pulling away slightly to peer up at him. “You have to live. You know that Tadashi’s goal was to help people and care for them. How much more would he have been able to do if he had lived? How much more can you help with your life, rather than your death? Is that not what your brother would have wanted? For you to live while continuing his work?”

Hiro’s eyes are now suspiciously wet, and he leans in to rest his forehead on Baymax’s armor so his companion cannot make out his expression. “Can I even do that?” A small, choked sob. “It’s hard to think about. My whole life like that. Doing his work alone, without him.”

“You are never without him. And you are never alone.”

As though Baymax pushed a button somewhere, Hiro suddenly begins crying in earnest, melting into Baymax’s arms. Baymax has few examples of tears to judge from—mostly short, restrained bursts from Hiro or Cass in recent weeks—but he believes this type may be a bit more cleansing. It’s an absolute, unrestrained wail; Hiro goes limp as though his body can no longer support him.

With a hundred other families swarming around him, directionless and stricken by the recent annihilation of all they have known and taken comfort in throughout their lives, Hiro finally grieves.

.

The Hamada residence, with its cozy yellowed lighting and oddly organized clutter, has always felt comfortable to Baymax. On days when Hiro is away at school, Baymax has taken to leaving his battery charger to observe the café residents or to putter about the kitchen, watching Cass’s employees transform simple elements into golden brown tarts and anpan, cream-filled éclairs, smooth mizuame and pralines, and sugary peanut amanatto. The activity is soothing. From out of the way in the back corner, Baymax observes human movement and interaction, not necessarily as something to emulate—he is quite aware of the limitations of his own body—but as something to examine and study, pieces to pick apart and understand for future reference. The Hamada family has proven to be a handful, and Baymax needs all the data he can acquire to help him form comparisons.

This morning, though, Baymax is restless. Two days after the storm, the city is still picking itself up, sweeping away the broken things and draining the excess liquid away. Its power systems have slowly thrummed back to life. Through Hiro’s window, Baymax watches the municipal droids rewire the status board across the street. He drifts downstairs to the café and pauses, half in sun, by the bay windows out front. Cass spots him from across the room and heads his way. 

When Hiro and Baymax finally reached the Hamada residence following the mudslide, Hiro shivering in spite of the armor, the boy insisted on clambering through the window to protect the charade they have presented to Cass for so long, to keep from revealing their somewhat hazardous escapades. After Hiro fell asleep sprawled atop his blankets, Cass slipped into the darkened room, a finger to her lips upon seeing Baymax still alert. Gently, she brushed a hand through Hiro’s hair, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and tucked his armor beneath his bed.

Despite their openness in other areas of their lives, Hiro pretends to be an average college student, and Cass pretends to believe it. The Hamada family is so strangely contradictory. It is unclear whether all humans share this trait to such a high degree.

Presently, Cass reaches him with a smile. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two,” she says without preamble. “You’ve been so quiet these past few days. Go see Hiro. Tell him hello for me.” She pushes him toward the front entrance. Before Baymax can work out a response, he is outside in the glaring sunlight, and Cass has pulled the door shut behind him.

Even with his detailed programming and extensive repository of information, Baymax is rarely fully certain of the correct course of action when it comes to interacting with his companions. However, if there is one thing he trusts, it is Cass’s intuition.

His feet direct him to the university as though driven there by his GPS. Baymax tends to leave Hiro to his own devices when it comes to classes—separation and independence are important for a developing adolescent human—but the show will be starting soon. The classes at San Fransokyo Institute are brochure-friendly small sizes—good, according to Hiro, because it’s less awkward being the little kid if you get to know everyone, and bad, according to Hiro, because there’s not much room to hide if you happen to be late as a rule—but they’re cancelled for the morning so that each can add its small number to the growing crowd in the auditorium. Baymax, ignoring the odd stares, takes an empty aisle seat near the front of the chamber.

The professor who has taken Callaghan’s classes, a diminutive man with wire-framed glasses, introduces each project to be demonstrated—a tiny pinprick of a camera, eye-tracking video game sensors, paper-thin cell phones. The speakers are fresh-faced and eloquent, diligently rattling off their share of statistics, and Baymax is certain that their presentations would be interesting if he could tear his eyes from the curtained wing where the next presenters will be waiting. It is some time before Hiro and Gogo walk onto the lighted stage to present their project.

When they do, Hiro creeps forward, one hand clutching the mike and the other shoved deep into his pocket. He looks like a small animal ready to bolt despite Gogo’s quick squeeze to his shoulder as she drags their display to the center of the stage.

Elevated stress, Baymax reasons. He is aware that public speaking is not Hiro’s thing. He is also aware that the last time Hiro had to do it, his brother was alive. Baymax was not present, but Hiro has since described his physical state during the presentation as “way past nauseous.”

“Hi,” he bleats quickly, his face carefully blank, “and thanks for c—for coming out…” Pausing, he clears his throat, a dry, rasping sound, and fidgets uncomfortably as though he really does suffer from an infestation of insects. Baymax shifts in his seat, torn between his desire to help his friend and the unspoken rules of social etiquette insisting that he remain seated.

The slight movement catches Hiro’s attention. His smile is sudden and genuine, and it quickly slips from his face as though Hiro himself was unaware he was going to do such a thing.

“The assignment we had to tackle for this class was really rough,” he begins slowly, tearing his eyes from Baymax to peer at the assembled crowd. “Gogo and I—and most of us in the class, I guess—have been gearing all of our new technologies toward fast-paced transportation. Improvements to wheel wear and tear, ways to decrease friction…stuff like that. So doing a complete one-eighty through this assignment really stumped us. Our challenge was to create something that would be useful not only to the specialized audience of tech whizzes and scientists but also to the average person who maybe has interests that lie outside of coding and maybe wouldn’t have access to complex technology.”

“If you know us,” Gogo adds as Hiro passes her the microphone, “you know we’re usually on the move, sometimes going faster than we should, and sometimes accidentally running you down on skates when we’re late for class. For this project, we wanted to branch outside our comfort zones, and in the end, we came up with something that we both wished we could have used at one point of our lives: orthopedic casts that don’t weigh half your body weight and smell after a few days of wearing it...”

As they continue, the crowd proceeds past the polite interest they have offered to other projects, craning their heads for a better vantage point as Hiro pulls on the silky, ultra-light cast—“it comes in colors, but black is classiest,” Gogo adds—to display its wiry strength. With the help of a few graphs and an onscreen camera feed to show close ups, they demonstrate the cast’s makeup and breathability, which has much to do with its thin, adamantine layers. 

At the end of their allotted time, they scoop up the cast and invite interested parties to find them later to test out small samples of the material. A burst of applause signals the end of the demonstration, and Hiro disappears into the corner of the stage with Gogo and their project. 

More demonstrations come afterward, but Baymax diverts most of his system energy to interior functions, becoming lost in thought. It is only later, when he realizes that he has been watching the living kaleidoscope of audience members for some time, that he discovers the exhibition has come to an end. Students and visitors mill about, striking up and discarding conversations, wandering into the wings to talk to the presenters, and departing en masse into the chilly night air.

“Yo, Baymax!” a voice says cheerily, drawing him from his internal processes. He turns to find Fred at his elbow. The student peers down at him with a lopsided grin, tufts of tawny brown hair jutting haphazardly from his hat. Wasabi and Honey Lemon trail behind, weak smiles on their faces. “We saw you come in late. What’d you think of our two class acts?” He sinks into a nearby chair, guffawing at his own pun.

“I have been witness to Hiro’s continued work in recent weeks,” Baymax replies as Honey Lemon and Wasabi settle beside him, possibly to distance themselves from Fred’s slightly embarrassing actions. “The product is both interesting and well known to me.”

“Well, yeah, we’ve all seen them with the cast,” Honey Lemon allows brightly. “They’ve been working on it for ages. But what about the presentation?”

“They looked good up there,” Wasabi begins, Fred bobbing his head in agreement. “Gogo really got her act together for this. She lost the gum and everything.”

Honey Lemon wriggles, clapping her hands together. “She was amazing. And Hiro was kind of adorable, wasn’t he? Like a little puppy…”

“Please don’t start up with your theories that Hiro had a past life as a beagle.” Wasabi grins, slipping a hand over his eyes as he slouches down in his chair.

“He was totally a beagle,” Honey Lemon counters, poking his shoulder for emphasis.

“The presentation was new to me,” Baymax says suddenly, then stops, working out what he means to say. “It is as though I understand more about Hiro now in a way I might not if he spoke to me directly.”

Fred rests his chin on one fist, face pensive as he leans onto the armrest. “Like a secret message?”

“The metaphor is not incorrect. But I believe it was unintentional.”

“What secrets were revealed?” Honey Lemon asks brightly, whirling her hands about in the air like a mystic. Wasabi hides a chuckle.

For now, Baymax evades the question, though not with the finesse a human might employ. “Is it typical for humans to gain a slight stutter when speaking to an audience?”

“Well, yeah,” Fred replies, unperturbed by the sudden change of subject. “Most people don’t really like it. Freaks ‘em out. I say most people.”

“Yeah, we all know you like being the weird-ass center of attention,” Wasabi states. 

“Someone’s gotta be!”

“Public speaking isn’t really Hiro’s thing,” Wasabi says almost apologetically. “I don’t think you were there, but back around the time when we first met him, back when Tadashi was alive, he had to get up and give his presentation to get into the Institute. Kid was nervous like you wouldn’t believe. I think having Tadashi there in the audience helped.”

Something oddly warm pools in the region of Baymax’s torso. He may be short-circuiting. “Yet he was able to overcome this roadblock in order to deliver an informative and compelling presentation.”

A beat. Wasabi is smirking. “Aww,” Honey Lemon cooes. “You sound so proud.”

“I do not believe I am capable of feeling pride with the current structure of my artificial intelligence,” Baymax remarks. “Pride is for humans.”

“It’s also for friends,” Fred replies, grinning. “Family. You’re close to Hiro, dude. I don’t care what your systems are like; it’s only natural that you’d be proud of him sometimes.”

“That would be…unwise. It is potentially unethical for a doctor to treat a friend or family member.”

“Maybe.” Honey Lemon pats Baymax’s arm as though he can derive comfort from the gesture. “But I think in this case, it might just help you give better treatment. You’re a healthcare companion, Baymax. Emphasis on the care.”

Baymax pauses in thought, doing a quick search from his saved databases. “Compassion is listed as a prominent factor in recovery,” he offers. “Patients who feel that their caregiver is invested in their recovery tend to have faster recovery times.”

“You do all that naturally through your programming,” Honey Lemon says. “But maybe you should let yourself really feel it. It could help the whole healthcare companion thing.”

“What’s that about our favorite healthcare companion?” Gogo asks from somewhere over Baymax’s shoulder. She pounds his back, and a rubbery sound echoes from his torso. Baymax turns to find her standing there, hand on her hip and a crooked smirk on her mouth. Hiro trails behind, looking patently relieved.

“Congrats on your presentation!” Honey Lemon shouts before anyone has time to react. She throws herself at Gogo and Hiro, catching both of them in a half-tumble, half-hug as they scrabble for purchase in surprise. “It was so amazing!”

“Yeah, you totally deserved the extra cred,” Fred admits, perching on the back of his seat. “And it was kind of a crowd pleaser.”

“Are you well?” Baymax asks them, though the question is directed mostly at Hiro: Gogo pushes Honey Lemon away with her usual brashness, but Hiro hovers uncertainly. Baymax doesn’t want to ask anything that will reveal too much. It was one thing to discuss Hiro’s condition with Wasabi at a crucial moment and another entirely to breach the subject with all of his friends now that Hiro seems…better.

“We’re fine,” Gogo replies, looking oddly at Baymax. Hiro smiles genuinely at him, understanding. He nods.

“You looked a little nervous,” Honey Lemon tells Hiro, poking him in the side. 

“Thanks,” Hiro replies sarcastically, swatting her hand away. “I guess you guys know I’m not really good at talking in front of an audience.”

“You shoulda seen him before we went up,” Gogo remarks slyly, nudging Hiro with her shoulder. “He was pacing so much I thought he’d wear out the carpet. Or flat-out bolt before they even got to our names.”

Hiro tries to stomp on Gogo’s foot, but she dances away. “I was kinda nervous,” he admits.

“Kinda,” Gogo echoes, laughing.

“Humans often feel symptoms known as ‘fight or flight,’” Baymax supplies helpfully.

The others nod patiently, but Hiro laughs. “Uh, I was definitely feeling the ‘flight.’ You know me. I had butterflies, what can I say? I mean…I hate doing all that public speaking stuff, but it’s also kind of awesome—you get to share what you’ve worked on with everyone, and I knew it’d go well. I mean, our entire project was awesome. So I was excited and nervous all at the same time.” 

“Contradictory,” Baymax states.

“Contradictory,” Hiro agrees. He pauses, rubs the back of his head, stares at Baymax. “But I guess I’ve learned…the thing about butterflies in your stomach? They’re there before you start, while you’re worrying, but they go away once you pick a direction. Once you start moving.” 

Baymax has been learning to read Hiro for some time, decoding patterns, taking scans, and laying out puzzle pieces. Rarely does his charge give him so obvious a message. I’m alright now, he says. 

The rest of the group stares at their youngest friend oddly. “I’m teaching Baymax about contradictory human behaviors,” he explains, smiling.

“Huh,” says Wasabi, crossing his arms. “Actually, while we were waiting for you guys, we were talking to Baymax about human behaviors, too. About being friends. Family.” He raises his eyebrows pointedly at Baymax. “You’ve been around us enough to know all this stuff by heart. And you know what they say—I mean, okay, maybe you don’t, but it’s a thing they say—‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.’”

“I am afraid that the advice behind this sentiment is impossible,” he remarks, “as I am a robot. However, if the sentiment is taken in a less literal manner, I believe it is something I would like to attempt.” He is unsure why they continue to stare at him warmly, Gogo rolling her eyes with uncharacteristic fondness as Hiro grins.

“So.” Fred hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “Anyone else up for fried food?”

.

There are only three restaurants in all of San Fransokyo equipped with retro video game rentals, and Fred is a regular customer at each of them. It’s a niche market: handheld controllers went out of style decades ago to be replaced by virtual reality systems. Baymax imagines most people wouldn’t expect the group of genius students to see the appeal in low-resolution games that don’t even boast immersive technology, but Fred has long since converted them. 

They book a two-hour rental on a room in the back corner of the restaurant, ordering greasy platters of fried dumplings and takoyaki and squabbling over the best retro handhelds. For the next few hours, they attempt to decimate each other’s characters while shoving hot fries into their mouths, watching blood splatter across the floor-to-ceiling screen. 

“I guess we like it because it’s weirdly simple,” Honey Lemon once explained, patiently answering Baymax’s relentless questions. “What you see is what you get.”

They can spend hours in greasy spoons like this. Every so often, Fred scans his wristband at the door panel to extend the rental without allowing anyone else the chance to offer payment. “This one’s on me,” he always grins. “Better luck next time.” He and Gogo are the most practiced on the field of battle and tend to dominate any competitive games, but the others are not far behind. Even Hiro usually gives as good as he gets.

Today, though, Hiro’s heart doesn’t seem to be in it. After a fourth successive annihilation, he leans back against the booth seat. “Ugh, I’m off my game,” he grunts, popping a fry into his mouth. 

“You really are,” Wasabi agrees, his avatar leaping over Hiro’s fallen warrior to search for the others. “You’d better bring your score up, man, or you’ll be out by next round.”

“Gonna get another round of fries and stuff,” Hiro says evenly, tossing down his controller. “Coming, Baymax?”

They step out into the hall, closing the door on Honey Lemon’s exuberant laughter and Fred’s loud whine for hanami dango this time.

Hiro walks slowly, staring at the large, patterned tiles of the checkered floor. He steps only on the black ones, hopping awkwardly from one to the next. “Sorry I’ve been kinda quiet the past few days,” he starts without preamble. “I know it’s been weird.”

Since the incident at Mrs. Matsuda's residence, Hiro has been oddly distant. It’s not so obvious that Baymax could easily point out what exactly his charge has been doing or not doing, but it’s perceptible enough that even Cass frowns at the change. These past few days, Hiro has drifted absently around the house, his head perpetually tilted in thought like a picture hung at the wrong angle. Baymax’s databases urge him to allow his friend some breathing room. Baymax has had a difficult time with this.

“It is reasonable that you should need additional time to process all that happened at Mrs. Matsuda's residence, as well as the subjects that we discussed,” Baymax allows.

“Yeah, reasonable.” Hiro echoes quietly. “Look, Baymax—I wanna say thanks. I know you’re gonna say your programming made you say the things you said or whatever, but…it really helped. All the stuff you told me. And thanks for letting me…you know. Bawl like an idiot, I guess.” Hiro rubs the back of his neck, which is pink with embarrassment.

“It was something more than programming that inspired me to say what I did,” Baymax allows, registering again what Wasabi has told him about friends and family. “As your healthcare companion, I am fully invested in your health. And in your life.” 

It is perhaps not all that he means to say, but he has the feeling Hiro understands from the way he looks away, smiling as he catches Baymax in the elbow with his fist. “Thanks,” he says simply, turning to the front of the restaurant. “C’mon, let’s get the order in.”

They step up to the counter, where a freckled boy takes Hiro’s order (“Hiro, though you rarely heed this advice, I must warn you again that loaded fries are more detrimental to your health than the traditional option.”) and throws their food into the grease to begin browning. Hiro rests his chin on the countertop to wait, but not for long: multicolored hanami, glazed teppanyaki, and a mountain of cheese-soaked fries topped with bacon and sour cream find their way into baskets on their tray. While they wait for the dumplings, Hiro sneaks a few bites.

“We’re gonna have a lot to do,” he says suddenly through his mouthful of hanami.

When he doesn’t elaborate, Baymax hums curiously. “A lot to do?” 

“If we’re gonna pick up where Tadashi left off. You know. Like you said.” He pauses, staring up at Baymax. “I don’t know if health care’s really my thing—not like it was for Tadashi. But I think we can come up with cool stuff to keep people safe…and, well. We’re a team. You said I wasn’t alone.” 

It sounds like a question, so Baymax reassures him. “You are not.”

“Good. ‘Cause I need backup. If I’m gonna—” he hesitates, toying with the cheap wax paper lining the baskets. “I don’t really know where to go or what to do. But I think you’re right that Tadashi would want us to finish where he left off. And I can’t do it alone, and you’re—” he swallows. “You’re all I have left of him. You’re family. I know you don’t—”

“I believe that our continued familial relationship would help me to be a better healthcare companion,” Baymax offers. Hiro steps back, eyebrows raised, and for a moment, Baymax misreads the micro-muscles and thinks he has offended his young charge. Then Hiro laughs. 

“You would,” he says, chest heaving. “Good. That’s—good.”

“Order’s up.” The worker deposits the dumplings onto the tray and slides it toward them.

Baymax takes it, allowing Hiro to swipe another fry before he does. “We should get started right away,” Baymax says, searching his feeds. “There is an upcoming technological exposition within the next month, and your affiliation with the Institute should allow you to register your latest invention, which should have broad mass appeal. I will look into patents this evening—”

“Hold up,” Hiro says. He’s frozen between tiles, feet spread apart to keep to black squares only, arms out for balance. “You wanna start soon? Today?”

“What else would I mean?” he asks, attempting to inject some of Gogo’s brashness into his tone, but it comes out too formally. He shakes his head. “That was not very good.”

Hiro smiles fondly. “No, it wasn’t. But it doesn’t really matter.”

As they approach the corner gaming room, Baymax allows his charge to sneak another fry. Hiro continues to stare thoughtfully at the tiles as they walk. Finally, he looks up at Baymax. 

“You know what?” he says, smiling as he intertwines his fingers behind his head. “Yeah. Let’s get started. I’m ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> (1) For some reason, it struck me as kinda weird that the protagonist and his brother have Japanese names while their aunt has an English one. I guess it could be a result of the boys' parentage, but I wanted to shake things up a little—so meet Aunt Kasumi (Cass), her big sister Maemi (May), and her brother in law Tomeo (Tom)! Also, Maemi and Tomeo's names are drawn from the parents of Hiro Takachiho from the Marvel comics, which (disclaimer) I've never read.
> 
> (2) Mochi's thrusters weren't my idea: apparently, Mochi was originally going to travel by rocket booster until the screenwriters pulled it out. But I liked the thought of it, so I stole it.
> 
> (3) I tried to mix American/Japanese culture wherever possible in things like place names and the use of prefectures instead of counties. I also imagine that in the future you can rent video game rooms like you can rent karaoke rooms in Japan and some places in the US.


End file.
